


Sit

by yeaka



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dom/sub Play, Dominance, Established Relationship, F/M, Femdom, Ficlet, Oral Sex, Puppy Play, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-20 13:48:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2431121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emily puts George through a new game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sit

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This isn't historically accurate. Thanks to abbeyjewel for the betajob! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Murdoch Mysteries or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s a slow day at the morgue, and she’s alone, as per usual.

Well, professionally alone, anyway. George doesn’t count. He’s only able to be here _because_ it’s a slow day, and she locks the doors to make sure he’s the last in. She reassures him, “There’ll be plenty of time to hide you if anyone comes calling,” and she grins to show she isn’t terribly worried. But then, Emily Grace tends not to worry over much. She deals with the dead all day, after all. She’s not about to be afraid of getting caught having a little... fun.

George still looks so nervous he might fall apart. He stands straight, as though he’s at attention: the near-military posture of a constable. Because she so very much enjoys seeing him at attention for her, she doesn’t tell him to breathe and relax. She goes about her business, wrapping the expensive leather around his tense neck. She clasps the front just over his adam’s apple, tightening it to fit snugly, to stay up, to complement his creamy skin. The collar’s black, like his uniform, but his uniform is lying in a neat puddle at her desk.

He’s standing before her without a stitch of clothing, deliberately looking away from her and constantly blushing pink. The poor dear. But as she’s explained many times, dogs don’t wear clothing. And today, George Crabtree is her puppy.

George so loves his canines. He couldn’t have dissuaded her from obtaining her own, not after hearing all the benefits. Clearly, he’s having second thoughts. But he doesn’t voice them, and Emily smoothes his dark hair back and tells him, “You’re doing very well, George.”

He adopts the ghost of a smile—that cute little lopsided thing that betrays a swell of confidence. She loops two fingers into the collar, just to test that there’s enough room for him to breathe, and he tilts his head obediently. “Not too tight, then?”

He turns a darker shade of red and, still looking away, supposes, “It feels well enough.”

“George.” He hesitates, then looks at her properly. She gives him a level, proud smile, and leans in to peck him lightly on the lips, though puts a hand on his chest to stop him when he tries to lean in for more. Pulling back, she tells him softly, “We can stop any time you’re uncomfortable.”

“...But you would like to try this?” Because of course that’s his prime concern, and it’s all over his adorable face. Emily has a difficult time keeping her grin from becoming a face-splitting menace.

“Very much.”

He half-shrugs his shoulders and sighs, “Woof.”

So she pets his cheek and tells him, “Good boy.” He smiles too sweetly for any dog; some day, she’ll have to blindfold him, or she’ll never be able to try all the more dominant, hard-core games she’d like.

For now, Emily places her hand on George’s shoulder, and he mumbles, “Oop, sorry,” and starts to sink. He falls to his knees and falters, puts his hands on the floor and glances up, just to receive a nod of confirmation. She immediately misses the full sight of him; his smooth chest and stomach and impressive crotch, but she was trying not to stare anyway, attempting to make him more comfortable. Even though her peripherals got quite an eyeful. And of course, she knows well enough what her George looks like naked from more than just this occasion. He can still be a shy, modest thing at times, and she knows he’s more comfortable hiding his front like this, even if he’s now at her feet.

Where she likes him best. There’s nothing quite like having a man submit to her, having him sit next to her boots and duck his head when she pets him like an animal. It’s a show of power women rarely get out in the real world. But in the closed-door world of Emily’s morgue, well...

She moves from the corner they were tucked in towards the table in the middle, pats her thigh and says, “Come, George.” ...She’s decided to be benevolent and let him keep his name. Assuming he’s good, of course. In the corner of her eye, she can see George instinctively move to get up, then clue in and return to all fours, shuffling to hurry after her. He’s clumsy, naturally. Devolved or not, he’s still _George Crabtree_ , but that’s part of his charm, and she enjoys the way he clambers to keep up with her swishing skirts. She doesn’t slow for him; Emily Grace never slows for any man. She knows the morgue is naturally chilly and the floor’s probably too cold against his palms and knees, but she’ll warm him up soon enough.

She reaches the table holding her latest cadaver, already carved up and sewn back together, and she plucks the clipboard off his chest. She does a last minute check over her notes—George arrived just as she was finishing up, and in her excitement, she knows she may have forgotten something, but as usual, her work is spotless. Below, George makes a noise, a word half cut-off, and then he bumps into her leg.

She looks down at him and blinks in surprise; he’s got a wad of skirt in his mouth. He opens his mouth as soon as her eyes catch him, and it tumbles back out, damp in a clean circle. He looks at her, red and helpless, and she realizes he’s abiding by the _dogs don’t talk_ rule, and apparently they chew women’s dresses.

Too fond of him for her own good, Emily asks, “What is it, George?” And on a whim, she adds, “You have permission to speak.” It’s just fun to say.

He asks, wincing lightly, “You’re not going to be cutting open a body, are you?” As though he hasn’t seen her do that a hundred times.

Looking uncomfortable and half covering his face every time, of course. His stomach is a good deal weaker than hers. Emily chuckles and says, “No, George. There’s no need to worry; I won’t get any blood on you.” He sighs with such relief that his shoulders slump. She wouldn’t be cruel enough to make him sit, naked, next to her while she sliced and diced a human body, although Emily’s certainly gotten enough blood on her arms for a lifetime. ...But she can handle it, and dealing with the dead is really a woman’s business, not a dog’s.

She lifts the page on her clipboard, double checks the one below—she’s been nearly giddy all day, knowing this was coming—and confirms that everything’s in place. Then she turns on her heels and marches across the floor, George following automatically this time. She tries to stay strong and not openly ogle him, but she does break and glance back once, watching with particular interest the movement of his bare ass. She has the fleeting thought that there must be someway to imitate a tail. She’ll have to think of that for next time. For now, she heads up the stairs and lets him trail after, until they’ve rounded the corner to her desk. At least it’s a little warmer up here. George, a true trooper, still doesn’t complain.

There’s a multitude of forms on her desk for her to add the clipboard to. When she sits down, she pulls in her chair and arranges the folds of her skirt more than necessary—mainly just an excuse to keep her gaze down. She pets George’s head again, weaves her fingers through his soft hair, and he leans into it with his eyes sliding closed, lips parted like the mere touch of her hand is bliss itself. She lightly scratches the back of his neck and enjoys watching him sit next to her, legs shifting out, then hurriedly jerking back in to try and cover himself as much as possible. He hunches slightly forward, and she doesn’t mind; she likes the look of his broad shoulders too, the slope of his spine and the protective circle of his arms. Sometimes looking at George is nearly as fun as touching him.

But ignoring him will be just as fun. She’s looked forward to making him wait. She forces herself to pry away and start in on her forms, and when she feels him look up at her, she announces without looking back, “Sit and be good while I work.” She makes it a clear cut order: no room for argument.

His mouth shuts before he’s even made a sound, and Emily happily sets in to transferring her notes into neat, efficient lines of data. A number of anomalies make this particular cadaver more note-worthy than usual—a small perforation on the inner left thigh, a burned tattoo on the small of the back, a distinct lack of eyelashes—but any excitement she would normally feel is currently distracted. She doesn’t put on the radio or a record either, as she usually might, because she prefers the gentle ebb and flow of George’s breathing. She catches the initial quickness—lingering nerves—and the way it slowly dissipates into something even and more relaxed. For a while, she gives him that comfort; she focuses on her work and leaves his nakedness in peace.

And after a while, he leans his head against her thigh, and she bites her lip to contain her reaction. She glances down once; he looks hopefully at her. She returns to work, and he slumps his whole body against her leg, probably needing the support to stay awake and up.

When she finishes her second form, she drops her hand to caress the back of his head and neck and shoulders. He makes a small bedroom noise—something of a moan. Then he colours and turns his face into her thigh to hide it, and she tries to look back at her forms but finds it intensely difficult.

By the time she finishes her full report, she can barely contain her naughty daydreams, such as walking George back to the stationhouse like this, on all fours and a leash. Or feeding him water from a saucer on her kitchen floor. Or having him lie on her lap in the sofa while she strokes his belly and tells him about her day...

And, of course, making him wear his collar everyday, under his uniform, subtly brushing her fingers against it every time she delivers a report to the detective, reminding him exactly who he belongs to. He’d look embarrassed every time, of course, but he’d do it for her, and he’d be a good boy, she knows he would, even if he is often overeager and forgetful and would take a bit of training...

She avoids shuffling her papers together, because she doesn’t want him to know she’s finished. She’s merely taking a break, as he’s so very distracting, but afterwards, she’ll return to business, and he’ll again be reduced to her personal footstool. She pushes her chair back a few centimeters: just enough to give room below her desk. This is what she’s been longing for the most. He looks up at the movement, head lifting off her leg, and she reaches down to cup his chin and pet his cheek with her thumb. It’s mostly smooth—only a scratch or two from where he inevitably missed. Perhaps she’ll shave him tomorrow. There’s another thrill to having a blade to a man’s throat: his life in her hands. She purrs, “You’ve been a good dog, George. Maybe you deserve a treat...”

His face flickers between curiosity and happiness; he always looks pleased when he pleases her. “Do you remember what you were practicing last week, when I was tired and told you to warm me up...?”

He starts to say, “Y—,” then remembers and nods. She can feel his skin burning with embarrassment against her hand. She gives him credit for that practice; she knows first hand how few men are willing to try something new at their woman’s suggestion, something meant solely to please her. But George is a special breed, and he’s always eager to serve her purposes even more so than his own.

She can’t help but praise again, “Good boy,” and lean down to press a hard kiss to the top of his head.

Then she’s straightening back up and reaching down for the hem of her skirt. She rolls it up her legs, watches him staring—she’s forgone stockings, and a woman’s bare legs are a rare treat outside of the bedroom. By the time she’s carefully shuffling fabric up her thighs, George looks just as excited as she is. Finally, she settles it over her lap, and he looks up at her; she lifts an eyebrow. She isn’t pushing down her underwear because she isn’t wearing any. Emily likes to come prepared.

Because George doesn’t move fast enough, she loops a finger into his collar and uses it to drag him around her chair. He snaps to obey in a heartbeat, crawling in between her spread legs, and Emily scoots to the very edge of the chair. George nestles in closer, and she guides him, his warm cheeks brushing her thighs and his knees bumping the sides of her boots. She should probably let go and let him learn on his own, but she can’t seem to draw her hands away. She makes fists in his hair instead, making sure that his face doesn’t go anywhere. She can’t see much below the folds of her skirt and his forehead and the slope of his nose, but she does see his eyes slide shut, and she can _feel_ his breath ghost over her skin.

He tilts slightly to the left and kisses her, just above her lips, right against her dark curls. The first time they did this, she invested too much time letting him get acquainted with the area, but now he knows not to dawdle, knows that the best chance to get her on his own anatomy lies in keeping her interested. She can feel his wet lips part, feel his spongy, moist tongue slowly protrude along her slit, and Emily instantly has to stifle a moan. She isn’t one to forgo her own pleasure, but George’s mouth is _so_ much better than her own fingers...

Especially now that she’s trained him, and she shivers as he draws a slow, languid line down her front, chin hitting the chair and tongue stretching to reach as far down her as he can. Emily slumps, trying to give him more access, and George is efficient and proper; he does the whole job. He licks back up, slow and steady, and presses into the very top, teasing at the little nub that always makes her quiver.

She squeezes his skull like a massage and groans, “ _George_ ,” because he responds so well to encouragement. His licks turn faster, more kittenish than canine, and he laps his way in a large circle around her opening, then turns to kisses, first chaste, then with a little bit of teeth, a scrape here and there, nibbles and pecks and a bouquet of exquisite attention. Emily’s head lolls over the back of the chair, chest heaving as each little nip and suck makes her breath quicken more. George makes his way back to her clit, sucks it into his mouth, and rolls it around his tongue, suckling and burrowing in as deep as he can. His nose is flattened into her skin, her juices leaking onto his chin. She can’t help it. It’s so very easy to be wet for George, because she knows he’ll also be ready, anytime and any way she wants him. She mumbles a wrecked form of his name again, and he extends his tongue into her, laps at her wet opening and pushes inside. Emily arches off the chair and moans, holding him impossibly close. It takes a good deal of effort not to hump his face.

Instead, her hips tremble and she runs her fingers through his hair, and he plunges his tongue in and out of her; she keeps trying to suck it in. The harder he fucks her with it, the wetter she gets, and as much as she fills his mouth, he never tries to pull away. He eats her out like he was built to serve her, and Emily almost comes undone before her time.

She forces it back instead, shifts her leg and runs her boot over his thigh. She can feel him hesitate, but she lets him; she needs that break to hold off her orgasm; she wants this to last as long as it can. And she wants more mileage out of her dog—more of the game. She sticks one foot between his legs and gently nudges forward, until she reaches the end of his thighs and can feel his hard cock against her toes. She smirks at the discovery, even though she knew he’d like it; he’s very excitable, and he likes dogs, and he _loves_ Emily. Still, it’s a good find. She rubs the tip of her boot against his shaft, careful with his soft balls, and George moans into her body. He doesn’t have her control; he bucks forward. He canters against her, and she hisses, “You’re a good boy, George, and you can hump my leg for it, since you’re such a good dog...” George makes a muffled noise that sounds like pure sex, and he shifts in her lap.

He drapes himself over her leg properly, tilts his head to keep it pressed into her, and he starts to wildly hump her ankle and stab his tongue into her at the same time. Emily keeps clawing at his hair and runs her other hand down his neck, over his shoulders, touching him everywhere she can reach without bending over. He humps her hard enough to threaten to topple the chair, but Emily doesn’t tell him to stop. When he lifts his hips, he can rub into her bare leg above the rim of her boot, and she can feel the slick trail of precum the tip of his cock leaves along her. It grinds into her skin, balls bouncing into her, and it should probably disgust her but doesn’t, just makes her think what a little doxy he is for her; how easily he comes apart, how well he fits at her feet, how much she enjoys debasing him and dehumanizing him and turning him into a pet, a slave, a toy for her pleasure...

It hits a point where Emily can’t take it anymore, and she has no power to stop it. Her orgasm slams into her like a freight train, and she grabs George and pushes him as hard into her as she can—he makes a choking sound but goes, grabs onto her knees for support, and she bends over him, crying out. He freezes for half a second, then resumes licking, and Emily pants her way through a fantastic high, until she’s giddy and senseless and her body’s cantering shallowly into him.

Then she lets go, slumps back in the chair, pants and feels boneless. Satiated, satisfied. George keeps humping her, turning his head aside and getting his cheek messy but gaining room to breathe. She thinks about reaching down to help, but enjoys his helpless submission too much, and ultimately just stays where she is. It takes her several minutes to come down anyway, and by then, George manages on his own. He tenses against her and whines into her thigh, and she can feel his release spraying across the side of her leg. Doubtless to the floor. He ruts into her for a few more rounds, then slowly putters out and collapses, slumping into her lap.

Emily still needs a minute. Watching George come is always a new spike of pleasure, and she savours that lingering warmth, pets his hair and strokes his cheek and thinks how pretty he is, how handsome, how good he looks flushed and spent.

Finally, she sits up straight enough to peer down between them. She spots the puddle between George’s knees, and he looks abashed and aside.

She laughs, “Look at the mess you made.” She swats at his chest, means to say, ‘bad dog,’ but can’t bring herself to; he’s so very, very good.

So she bends to kiss his forehead instead, already plotting round two.


End file.
